


Night Falls on Sovereign Almèreva

by octoberburns



Series: The Almèreva Revolution [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Assassination Plot(s), Fantasy, Fantasy Venice, Gay Bar, M/M, Queer Culture, Revolutionaries, Totalitarian regime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2021-01-13 14:23:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octoberburns/pseuds/octoberburns
Summary: Juniper has a job to do. It's a desperate, hopeless chance; it's also the best one he's got to save his home. It's probably going to kill him. He's going to see it through regardless.All he has to do is get Paolo Volpe, the most dangerous man in Almèreva, alone with him and too off balance to fight back.Simple.





	Night Falls on Sovereign Almèreva

**Author's Note:**

> A very belated request story for September. Thanks for your patience, everyone! I think you're going to like this. Thanks as always to Ashley, Alex, and the rest of my supporters. You are the light of my eyes and the wind beneath my wings.
> 
> This month's prompt was for drama in a high fantasy gay space. Because I'm me, that immediately grew a political plot. No, I'm not sorry.
> 
> This is set in the same world as the [Haaol Sea stories](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1428919), but in a very different region. Enjoy!

It was almost midnight, and the street was nearly deserted. Its only pedestrian was a slender elf of perhaps thirty years, and he was keeping to the deep shadows cast by the street lamps. In this quarter, the lanterns glowed a magic-tinged blue that painted the cobblestones in stark chiaroscuro; out of the light, he was unremarkable—just an ordinary man in an unobtrusive grey cloak, moving with the self-assured carelessness of a local.

Juniper Fortuna was not a local; in fact, he had never been down this narrow side street before in his life. But he had been running with political resistance groups for years, ever since his ungraceful tumble out of adolescence a decade past, and he knew how to move like he belonged. No one at all was meant to be out at this hour, but at least if the guards thought he lived nearby he’d have a better chance of talking his way out of an arrest.

Of course, that only raised his odds to _slim_ from _none_. Better to avoid being spotted at all, if he didn’t want to be made to disappear.

Almèreva had had a dusk curfew for as long as he could remember. As a child he had never been allowed to go outside at night, not even into the courtyard: the sisters at the Garden Temple were strict about the law, and had done their best to impress upon their charges a virtuous horror of ever being caught outdoors after dark. They had succeeded, after a fashion: Juniper had never been caught.

He had learned, as part of his ill-starred entry into adulthood, that a surprising number of people never were. Almèreva was a crisscrossing warren of canals, bridges, underpasses, tunnels, and twisting back streets, and it was impossible for the Seneschal’s people to police them all. Far from being stamped out, the lawbreakers, the rebels, and the unvirtuous had simply gone underground.

Juniper was half-convinced that had been the curfew’s real purpose. After all, he thought with a wry twist of his mouth, he certainly wouldn’t be out here tonight if Almèreva’s rulers truly wanted to eradicate the vices they claimed to.

The street branched, and he took the left fork, following it past a series of shadowed doorways and over a tiny canal he could have leapt with only the briefest running start. A narrow footpath ran alongside it, and he took the steps down, silently counting the lower level doors he passed on his right side.

Most of them were cellar entrances, painted in dull colours and salt-stained by proximity to the canal, used only by servants and the particularly scandal-prone. In the barely-there lighting of the footpath, the door he stopped in front of looked just like the others. But he knew, from the chips of paint that flaked off onto his hand, that it was not the black it appeared in the darkness but a deep red—and, around the keyhole, his questing fingertips found the delicate etching of a moth with folded wings, which marked all such establishments in some way.

This was the place. Juniper turned his back to the canal, shielding the entrance with his body, and lifted a hand to knock.

It was opened swiftly: this was not the sort of venue that wanted to leave anyone waiting visibly at its doorstep. The doorman was an elf, like more than half the city: tall, broad, with brown eyes and a snub nose—a forgettable face, no doubt an intentional choice. Juniper made the hand sign Simoneto had taught him, and without a word the man stepped back and ushered him in.

Juniper followed him through a scarcely-lit antechamber and into a vestibule that nearly glowed with opulence after the shadows of the street. The light was the warm gold of real firelight, or lamps that had been bespelled to mimic it; the wallpaper was understated but lush, patterned in red damask and tiny handpainted accents of gold. Most of the outer garments on the hooks behind the doorman’s seat were as inconspicuously styled and coloured as Juniper’s own.

“May I take your cloak, signore?” the doorman said, extending his hand in a gesture of restrained politeness.

Juniper took his hood down; the doorman inhaled sharply.

It was a common reaction—from women and men both, though outside of clubs like this one the men usually took care to restrain it. Juniper knew he was beautiful. Tonight he had accented it—heavy earrings dangling from his pointed ears, a graceful brass choker to highlight the column of his throat, paint on his lips the same shade of deep red as the door he had entered by—but even unadorned, his delicate features and tumbled black hair and the constellations of freckles on his perfect tawny skin drew the eye. That was part of why he had been selected for the job he was here for; it was also why he would only get this one single, desperate chance.

“Thank you,” he said, pitching his voice to lower, more musical tones than he normally used. He untied his cloak and slid it from his shoulders, revealing clothing every bit as arresting as his face: high boots, tailored trousers, elegant rings on graceful fingers, a linen shirt with fitted cuffs and wide sleeves so finely woven that it seemed you could see the shadows of his arms through them. It had all been carefully chosen, but none more so than the shirt: under fabric so seemingly insubstantial, no one would ever think to look for the flat, leaf-bladed knife Juniper had strapped to his right forearm. That he also looked lovely in it just made it all the better.

The doorman took his cloak with a slightly wild-eyed look. “Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “Please go through to the next room, signore. The club is open until dawn.”

“Thank you,” Juniper said again, with a smile he knew could devastate men’s hearts. He turned away, leaving a coin on the table by the doorman’s chair as he passed, and walked into the club.

Beyond the vestibule, the club opened up into a broad, low-ceilinged room with plenty of sheltered nooks and private compartments tucked in against its walls.It was just as richly appointed as the entryway, with polished stone floors, silk wallpaper of a muted sea green, and oak furnishings brought over from the mainland. Fantastical carvings adorned the wood—riotous flowers and foaming waves and the sinuous merpeople who had long ago left Almèreva’s canals, all dotted here and there with moths. There were no windows, and wouldn’t have been even if it had been above cellar level, but the room was nonetheless beautifully lit by those same soft golden lamps. A tavern-style bar ran along one side of the open area; behind it, the bartender was chatting with a patron as she poured champagne into a pair of flutes. On the opposite side of the room from the entrance, on a small raised stage beside a fireplace that was more coal than flame, a sultry-voiced troubadour sat with a lute, singing an old love ballad.

Juniper spared the club only the time he needed to assess the room and commit it to memory. All the rest of his attention was for the patrons.

They were of every kind Almèreva had to offer, and then some. Elves and dwarves mingled freely with each other, and both shared tables with the occasional ogre—all of whom sat in the heavy chairs specially designed for their comfort, normally a fixture only of ogre-owned establishments. In contrast to the subdued colours and plain stylings of the cloaks in the vestibule, within the club the patrons were dressed flamboyantly, garishly, stunningly, with none of the restrictions that were enforced or encouraged in public. Men wore long skirts and face paint; women donned doublets and tucked their hair up under plumed hats; those who were neither man nor woman dressed as they pleased, free to flaunt their genders as they never could outside of clubs like this one. Like him, they had all broken the curfew to be here; like him, they risked death just for being caught in a place like this.

Juniper had been to similar establishments before, but it still startled him to feel the sudden lump that welled up in his throat. Only at private meetings with his fellow revolutionaries did he ever come close to feeling as welcome as he did here.

For a moment his resolve wavered. This was meant to be a place of safety—a home for those, like him, who had no home in the public culture of Almèreva. And he had brought death into this space. How could he go through with the task he had taken on?

No, he told himself, with a cadence that rang strongly of Caterucia’s familiar righteous tones, we are not the ones who brought violence to the city. That was the Prince and the Seneschal and all their lackeys. As long as we take care of the innocent, any answering violence is just.

His target was here. He would do his job. Who could say when they would ever get a chance like this again?

Juniper moved into the club, circling the long way around the central tables to the bar—the path that would put him most clearly on display to the whole room. Faces flashed by as he walked, and he memorized them out of habit: a broad-cheeked elf, face artificially lightened well beyond verisimilitude with powder, gowned in elegant blue and elaborately made up; a handsome dark-skinned dwarf in a gold doublet and tinted round lenses, his coiled hair pulled up into a topknot at the back of his head; an ogre with a great and muscular bulk, his sandy skin gleaming with a lightly fragrant floral oil, holding his tankard with his smallest finger delicately extended like it was the finest china teacup.

And, there, seated at one of the enclosed tables that faced onto the open space: Paolo Volpe, the man Juniper had come to kill.

Juniper let his eyes rest on him only for a moment. He knew what Volpe looked like; there was no need to memorize his face. He was attractive, or at least Juniper might have thought so if he hadn’t known who he was, with hooded blue eyes in a face only a shade lighter than Juniper’s own, a sardonically curved mouth, long wavy hair of a colour that was not quite red drawn back into a tidy horsetail. He was an elf, as were the others at his table—neither of whom were dressed so richly as Juniper’s target, though Volpe wore only black. Rather than opulence, it was the precision of his tailoring and the quality of the fabrics that displayed his wealth, so much so that he looked almost out of place next to the gaudy extravagance of the other patrons.

And yet no one seemed to notice. That was hardly a surprise to Juniper, but it was still strange to see it in action. Volpe was an expert of enchantment, a kind of magic that allowed him to change perceptions and influence others’ minds. The spell he used to attend clubs like this one was of a type that would prevent anyone from recognizing him unless they expected to see him there. It had been only a sheer stroke of luck that Alegreza had discovered where he went on the nights he disappeared from under her watch, and nothing short of a miracle that one of the clubs had been one Simoneto was familiar with.

Simoneto had volunteered to carry out the job himself, but Juniper had talked him out of it. It wasn’t fair to ask him to commit treason in a place he had used as a retreat from Almèreva’s increasingly grim politics. And besides, it had become clear after another three months of careful reconnaissance that it was Juniper who would be the perfect fit for Volpe’s preferences.

Remembering his friends would only upset him. He pushed the thought away.

Juniper took a seat, selecting a clear space at the bar that would allow Volpe to observe him, and lounged one-armed against the countertop. Casually he turned the blade on his forearm down and out of view, crossing his left leg over the right. Within a few moments the bartender came up to him. She was a dwarf, wearing a deep red doublet and a shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows to show off her muscular arms, her dark hair and beard both clipped short. Juniper sized her up with silent appreciation; he wouldn’t have minded flirting with her, but he had a strong suspicion she was only interested in women.

“Welcome to the Red Door,” she said, beaming sunnily at him. “What can I get for you?”

Juniper matched her expression. “Could you tell me about your selection?” he said. “This is my first time here. A friend recommended me the place, but couldn’t be bothered to bring me himself.”

She laughed. “Didn’t want the competition, huh?”

“Well, he didn’t _say_ that…,” Juniper said, trailing off pointedly.

The bartender nodded, placing a solemn hand over her heart. “It’s hard to be beautiful,” she agreed. “Well, I have a selection of wines from the mainland—all kinds, whatever you fancy, and some sweet wine liqueurs. My uncle imports most of those for me.”

Juniper had a friend in the ‘importing’ business, too; that was Poluccia, who smuggled in regular shipments of weapons, magical research, and food stores. He had taken over two years ago after their last supplier had been caught and strung up on the harbour wall of the Prince’s palace.

“We have some local Almèreva wines, too,” the bartender continued, “but, honestly, I don’t recommend them. I have a couple of ales if you’re a beer man, some brandies, an amaretto. Last week I got my hands on an absinthe wine—it has an amazing colour.”

Juniper whistled. “I wish I could afford that,” he said with a laugh. “How about red wine? Whichever you like best.”

“Coming right up.”

As Juniper sipped slowly at his wine—a small luxury, hard to find in Almèreva these days unless you were rich enough to flagrantly break the law—he let his eyes rove over the Red Door’s patrons, affecting the posture of a man looking for someone to take him back to their room. What he was really doing was scanning for Volpe’s guards. The two men at the table with him were obvious candidates, even if they were doing a good impression of new money drinking companions. But there were almost certainly others scattered amongst the ordinary clientele.

Juniper thought he had spotted three, maybe four. More than he had hoped, but better than he might have expected. It would do. He took another sip of his wine and returned his attention to his target.

Volpe was looking back at him.

A shiver of danger prickled over his skin. Firmly Juniper reminded himself that this had been his goal: he was here to be observed. He had placed himself in Volpe’s view deliberately, near enough to be noticed and dressed to appeal to his tastes. That it was also the way Juniper himself liked to dress when he wanted to be looked at was immaterial, even if it did fill him with a sick disgust to know he was desirable to the likes of Paolo Volpe. It was fine. He would be fine. He was not going to hide himself from view at the next opportunity, as his instincts were screaming for him to do.

Curving his lips into a coy smile, he raised his glass fractionally in an almost unnoticeable toast, and turned his attention away.

Over the next half hour, as he slowly finished his wine, he took no more than a few careless looks back. This was the most crucial stage of the job. If he came on too strong, their surveillance had indicated that Volpe would lose interest: he was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted, easily bored by anything too eagerly given. Juniper had to be sure he felt he had made the first move, or risk him getting suspicious. It was an excellent strategy—but for the fact that it required him to submit to being looked at for hours by Paolo Volpe.

He ordered a second glass of wine. He talked idly with the men who came up next to him at the bar either to flirt with him or simply because they wanted another drink. He cast glances in Volpe’s direction, refused to linger more than a moment when their eyes met, visibly angled his body to better show himself off to his searching gaze. When Volpe caught his eye again and lifted his hand in a come-join-me gesture, Juniper gave him a smile and a long look under his eyelashes, and turned away once more.

“You look like you’re playing hard to get,” said a voice beside him. “Can I help?”

Juniper looked down. It was the handsome dwarf he had noted earlier, with the stylish topknot and the tinted lenses that concealed the colour of his eyes. His jaw was sharp, accented by the way he had trimmed his beard—close and precisely edged along his jawline, it had been allowed to grow long enough around his mouth and chin to style into a six-inch braid, separated into segments by wrapped brass wire. It was a memorable cut, in a city where many people went out of their way to be unmemorable; ordinarily that might have suggested _nobility_, but they had enough money not to bother hiding away their transgressions at clubs like this one. But there was another group in the city well-known for their relentless refusal to conform.

“Are you an _academic?_” Juniper asked, in genuine delight. The University of Almèreva had begun its latest campaign of resistance five years ago by politely declining to stop teaching subjects the Seneschal disapproved of, then escalated to neglecting to name their newest lecture hall after the Prince, and rounded it out recently with unofficially sending their people to tend to the prisoners on display in Talenezia Square. The Seneschal had been unable to bring them to heel with the usual threats of dawn raiding, torture, and summary execution—aside from anything else, the University was also home to the oldest College of Mages in five hundred miles—and so was currently engaged in crushing their resistance by financial means. If the pattern of the last decades held, they’d fold in about three years or so, and take another six or seven to get their spirit back; but in the meantime it was almost as dangerous to be a student as a revolutionary.

The dwarf grinned at him and hoisted himself up onto the nearest barstool. “You’re sharp, to get that much from a sorry attempt at a line,” he said.

“So are you, to spot what I’m up to,” Juniper countered. “And as a matter of fact, yes, I would love some assistance.”

“Excellent! I may not be your pick for the night, but I’m still attractive enough to rate making the other fellow jealous. What more can a man ask for?”

That startled Juniper into a real laugh, and for a moment he ached with regret that he wasn’t really here for the same simple pleasures everyone else had in mind. If he had been choosing for himself—if he had been somewhere out of the repellent heat of Volpe’s desire—he could happily have spent the rest of the night with the man now sitting in front of him.

The dwarf smiled, an open pleasure at having amused him. “I’m Monteo,” he said.

“Daniele,” Juniper said, the lie so practiced he didn’t even have to think on it. He lifted a hand, smoothing it along the line of Monteo’s shoulder, tweaking his doublet straight. “So, I was right? You are an academic?”

Monteo laughed. “Much to my mother’s chagrin,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve made something of a career of it. I’ve been studying at the University for fifteen years, and teaching for the last three.”

“What brings you out here, then?” Juniper asked, and despite himself found his mind filing that information away in the same place it held memorized faces and intelligence reports. “You must have come halfway across the city. There have to be closer clubs.”

“Oh, I’m being seditious,” Monteo said cheerfully. “You have to spread these things as far as possible, you know. And besides, none of the other clubs have you at them,” he added, propping his chin on his fist and giving Juniper a look of frank admiration.

Juniper bit back a smile, toying with his rings. “You’re very blunt.”

“One of my many charms,” Monteo said. “I’m sorry, you must have people telling you how beautiful you are constantly. I’m sure you’re bored of it.”

Delicately, Juniper touched the back of his hand. “It does happen a lot, yes,” he said. “But it’s still nice to hear.”

“Your pardon, gentlemen.”

Juniper turned his head. One of the men who had been seated with Volpe was standing in front of him, holding a glass of clear amber liquid on a tray he had no doubt borrowed from one of the serving staff. He offered it now to Juniper and stepped back to give him a clear line of sight to Volpe’s table.

“My friend asked me to bring this to you,” he said. “He hopes you will agree to join him at our table.”

“Looks like it’s working,” Monteo said, in an undertone too low to carry to their interloper. Juniper had to bite back another smile.

Instead he lifted the glass to his face, gently inhaling the scent. It was a brandy, rich with notes of applewood and spices. He didn’t want to drink it, especially knowing who it had come from, but his ruse would never work if he didn’t. He would just have to trust to the antitoxin spells Caterucia had procured for him.

He closed his eyes and took a deep swallow.

Volpe’s bodyguard waited patiently as Juniper savoured the mouthful, lowered the drink from his lips, and turned back to look at him. “Please tell your friend,” he said, “that if he’s so interested, he can come over here and tell me so himself.”

If the man was surprised to see someone refusing his master, he didn’t let it show in his expression—but then again, Juniper wasn’t meant to know who his master was. “Signore,” he said, with the slightest crease of a bow, and then he was gone.

“Well, I suppose that’s my cue,” Monteo said. “Best get out of your way.”

Juniper wanted to tell him to stay—wanted to hold onto these few minutes of true and friendly conversation as a shield against what must surely come next—but who knew what Volpe might do to someone like Monteo if he thought the dwarf was keeping him from something he wanted. “I suppose you’d best,” Juniper agreed, trying not to allow the dread to creep into his voice. “But thank you, sincerely, for the lovely conversation.”

Monteo was either the best actor Juniper had ever met, or he genuinely wasn’t disappointed to be taking his leave. He got to his feet, bowing over Juniper’s hand and briefly kissing his knuckles. “I hope he’s as wonderful as you could dream.”

Juniper had to suppress a wave of hysterical laughter. “I hope so too,” he said, and hoped he had struck on overwrought solemnity rather than panic.

And then Monteo left him, and he was alone—waiting for Paolo Volpe, who no reasonable person should ever hope to be caught in conversation with, let alone try to seduce. What was he _doing?_

He managed to get two thirds of the way through the drink before Volpe joined him.

“Were my first two invitations not good enough for you?” Volpe said, sweeping Juniper from head to toe with a hooded gaze. The question was light, teasing, something anyone might have said—but, knowing who he was, there was no way Juniper could avoid reading menace into it. “Come sit with my friends and I. We’d love to have you.”

The look Juniper returned him gave no sign of his true feelings. He took a slow sip, then another, taking some small refuge in the power he had to make Volpe wait. When he had finished his drink, he set the glass down, then reached out to spread his palm against Volpe’s chest. “And what could your friends possibly have to recommend me to their company?” he said. “I think I like it much better right here.”

Volpe’s smile as he slid into the vacant seat next to Juniper was nothing short of triumphant.

“Your doublet is lovely,” Juniper said, fingering the black-on-black embroidery that stiffened the front of his jacket. He gave him another look from under his lashes. “It must have cost a fortune. Are you wealthy as well as handsome?”

Volpe grinned, a predator’s smile that Juniper pretended not to notice. “Unlike my friends, I have quite a lot to recommend me to my partners.”

Like the fact that you might have them killed if they spurn you, Juniper thought. He didn’t let his expression waver. He just lowered his eyes, transparently flicking his gaze down between Volpe’s legs, and then back up. “Lucky me,” he murmured.

Volpe leaned his jaw on his hand, looking Juniper over for a long moment, smug and possessive. “You’re very pretty,” he said finally.

“I know,” Juniper said, letting a self-satisfied smile touch his lips. “Every man here wants to be you tonight.”

Volpe’s smile, which had started to fade into the greed with which he was eyeing Juniper’s body, broke across his face again. Juniper could guess what amused him: in places like this, it was customary to toast to the ruin of the regime he stood for. “Oh, darling,” he drawled, “you have no idea.”

He put his hand on Juniper’s thigh.

Juniper had been braced for it, but all the preparation in the world could never have been enough to suppress the shudder of revulsion that shot through him. Once again the hysterical panic reared up to seize him by the throat. What had he been thinking, taking on this job? One wrong move and he was going to die, vanished without a trace by Volpe or his guards.

Fortunately, Volpe read his trembling as a shiver of desire. His eyes creased in pleasure. “Shall we give them something else to be jealous of?” he said.

Juniper wrenched himself back under control. “Drink with me first,” he said, turning to gesture to the bartender. “Buy me the absinthe wine. I’ve always wanted to try it.”

“Very well,” Volpe said, not bothering to conceal the current of amusement in his voice.

“And besides, you haven’t even told me what to call you,” Juniper added, channelling Simoneto at his most performatively dramatic. “I can hardly allow a man to walk me home when we haven’t even been introduced.”

“I’m Paolo,” Volpe said, as the bartender poured out two glasses of absinthe wine for them. Juniper had to bite down another bubble of hysteria. Of course he was using his real name; no one was expecting to see _him_ here. “And how am I to address you, beautiful?”

“‘Beautiful’ will do,” Juniper said, all faux-haughty flirtation. “Or you may call me Daniele.”

He picked up the drinks, flicking the catch on the hidden compartment of his ring to empty its contents into Volpe’s glass. This part was tricky: he had to be sure the powder had dissolved into the liquid without Volpe noticing what he was doing. He had practiced with Caterucia, over and over until he was sure he could get it right, but the few quick heartbeats it took to pass the glass to him felt like eternity.

Volpe was looking at his hips, not his hands. Juniper would make sure it stayed that way. He raised one foot, delicately running his boot along the inside of Volpe’s calf, and handed him the drink—leaning in as he did to let his enemy’s hand slip further up his thigh.

Volpe took the wine. “You’re really something else,” he said, finally dragging his eyes back up to Juniper’s face. “Alright then, Daniele. What shall we drink to?”

“To being the envy of the room,” Juniper said, and raised his glass. Volpe mirrored him.

And then it all went wrong.

“Excuse me,” said a polite, familiar voice, and then a broad hand reached out to catch Volpe’s forearm. “Don’t drink that.”

How did he _know_, Juniper wondered, as the barely contained hysteria broke over him again. Even Volpe hadn’t seen it, and he must have been used to watching for treachery!

The look Volpe levelled at Monteo could hardly even be called a glare; it was like he was an insect, a minor irritation barely worth his notice. “You’re interrupting,” he said coldly. “You had your chance already; go away.”

“He put something in it,” Monteo said patiently, not letting go of Volpe’s arm. He turned his gaze on Juniper; the disappointment there cut deeper than any anger could have. “I thought he was charming when I spoke to him. I was wrong.”

Slowly, Volpe turned his eyes on Juniper.

“I didn’t,” Juniper said, scrambling not for defensiveness but incredulity. Maybe he could still salvage this. “You can’t seriously believe I’d—what would I want to put anything in your drink for anyway? We were already going to—”

“There are any number of reasons,” Volpe said. His voice had gone hard around the edges. Silently, he set the glass down, pushing it across the bar to Juniper. “If there’s nothing wrong with it, you drink it.”

Juniper didn’t try to stop himself sagging in relief; his real feelings were a convenient mask for the performance. The powder he had intended to dose Volpe with wouldn’t hurt him: a poison would have been too obvious, and too easy to test for. Instead it was a magic suppressant—rather than kill him in the open, it had been meant to give Juniper a fighting chance once they were alone. He raised the glass to his lips.

“That won’t prove anything, I’m afraid,” Monteo said apologetically. “I’m fairly sure it’s chiusura powder. He doesn’t have magic.”

How did he know, Juniper thought desperately—how could he _tell?_ Slowly he set the glass down, fighting to control the trembling in his hands.

“Up,” Volpe snapped, his voice a whip-crack of command. He uncoiled from his seat, getting to his feet and backing Juniper away from the bar into the open floor. Out of the corner of his eyes, Juniper could see the men he had pegged as guards moving towards him. He wasn’t going to make it out of this. He had been so _close!_

Monteo was still next to him. Was he one of Volpe’s guards too? Rather more subtle than the usual type, if so, but if he was—

“Well?” Volpe said. “Are you going to bother explaining yourself?”

The guards had him surrounded. It was now or never; Juniper dropped the pose. “You don’t need an explanation from me,” he snarled, and whirled on Monteo. The dwarf stumbled back, but not fast enough. By the time they came to a stop Juniper had wrenched his arm behind his back, and his knife was in his other hand. As the club erupted into pandemonium around them, he pressed the edge of the blade to Monteo’s throat. “You’re going to let me go,” he said. “You let me go, or he dies.”

In his arms Monteo went stiff. Volpe gave them a long, assessing look.

And then he started to laugh.

_Fuck_, Juniper thought, with the sort of viciousness he usually reserved for the Prince’s name.

“Fine,” Volpe said. “Kill him. What do I care? Do you think I’m going to let an assassin get away for the sake of a hostage’s life? I don’t care how pretty you are,” he added, bitter mockery—of himself, of Juniper. “You can’t be that stupid.”

“Now, wait just a minute,” Monteo said. Against all odds he sounded indignant.

“_Don’t_,” hissed Juniper.

“I just saved your life, you can’t just—”

“Yes, you did. And you’ll be honoured for your sacrifice in Talenezia Square when I torture this traitor to death,” Volpe said, quite casually. He waved his hand at the crowd, who were still exclaiming in horror or demanding the club’s security do something about the scene in their midst. “Would somebody shut these people up?”

“When you—” Monteo said, and then stopped, his teeth coming together with an audible click.

Volpe heaved a sigh. “It’s such a shame,” he said. “I really liked this club. Well, I suppose it never lasts.”

Juniper could tell the instant he released the enchantment that disguised him: that was when the patrons went from dismay to terror. Half the crowd started pushing for the exit. The club’s security, which had been advancing on them with batons and staffs, broke ranks and joined the crowd, urgently pleading for calm as everyone tried desperately to get out. Two brave souls rushed them, and were immediately gutted by the guards for their trouble. Monteo flinched in Juniper’s grip, but Juniper refused to turn his eyes away.

Before them, his face bare to the world, stood Paolo Volpe, the Seneschal of Almèreva.

“Oh, shit,” Monteo said weakly.

Now you see what we’re in for, Juniper wanted to say, but he couldn’t get his voice to work.

Volpe was still watching Juniper, self-satisfied and in control. “Well?” he said. “Weren’t you going to kill your hostage? Go ahead, bleed him dry. Maybe I’ll change my mind and let you live after I’ve wrung your secrets from you. You’d make such a lovely pet.”

Juniper didn’t twitch, staring him down with a stony expression that spoke to a lifetime of hatred. Volpe would hurt him no matter what he did; he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of pleading for his life.

“You’re from that resistance cell in the dell’Altamarea quarter, aren’t you?” Volpe continued. “You people have been a thorn in my side for months. I’m glad to finally get the chance to stamp you out.” Still Juniper didn’t move. Volpe sighed. “You’re not going to commit, are you? Fine. I suppose I have to do everything myself.”

At first Juniper thought Volpe was going to advance on them himself, but he made no move. It was only when he felt his grip tightening on Monteo’s arm without his permission that he remembered—

An ordinary enchanter could never have compelled something so sustained—or extreme—as an innocent man’s slow death. But the unfeeling Prince and his brutal Seneschal had been in power in Almèreva for nearly fifty years, far longer than should have been possible by their apparent age. But they had had the time to uncover the ritual spells that would preserve their longevity for decades to come; they had certainly had time to hone their powers to an unstoppable cutting edge.

Against his will, Juniper felt the tip of his blade bite into Monteo’s neck.

“Right,” Monteo said, abruptly and quite decisively, and then with perfect enunciation: “Fuck this.”

And he thrust out his hand.

For a moment nothing happened. Then there was a blast of heat and light that rocked the world. The Seneschal and his guards were knocked off their feet and thrown back, crashing down onto tables, the bar, the hard stone floor. Volpe’s head hit the counterop with a dull thump, and Juniper felt the enchantment lose its grip on him all at once. Monteo ripped himself out of his arms.

“Did you just use magic?!” Juniper demanded.

“Not the time!” Monteo yelled back. He was already racing, not for the exit the last of the patrons were still shoving through, but for the private compartments. Belatedly Juniper remembered there was another entrance that way, used by the staff and anyone with enough money to pay for extra discretion. It galled him to leave the club to bear the brunt of the Seneschal’s wrath, but there was no help for that. He bolted after the dwarf.

The private door opened onto a walled alleyway between the buildings, barely wide enough for a single person. Juniper caught up to Monteo there and together they tore up the stairs to street level, crossed the nearest canal bridge, and turned down a crooked side street. “Do you know where you’re going?” Juniper said, terse.

“No,” Monteo replied, breathlessness apparent even in a single word.

Wordlessly Juniper overtook him, leading them on a twisting multi-level route across the quarter, crossing bridges and running along canals and ducking through courtyards whose residents were known to leave their gates conveniently unlocked for revolutionaries. Monteo resolutely kept up, though he was breathing hard and his legs were evidently weighed down by exhaustion. Juniper didn’t bother with most of his tricks of unobtrusive movement: at this stage, the curfew guards were the least of their worries. They didn’t speak. They simply fled.

Finally they came to the canal that marked the border of the dell’Altamarea quarter. Juniper followed it for a quarter mile, ducking into side streets whenever he heard the guards coming. And then when they at last reached a particular one of its tributary canals—narrow, barely three feet wide—he vaulted over the side.

“Um,” said Monteo, an edge of panic creeping into his voice.

“There’s a ladder,” Juniper said impatiently. He was already halfway down it. “Come on.”

The dwarf followed; he didn’t have much choice. At the bottom of the ladder was a ledge they could step down on, and from there a grate that led onto a disused wastewater drain, just high enough for Juniper to walk without crouching. The grate was supposed to be bolted magically into the stone, but the spells had worn away years ago. Juniper lifted it clear and led the way into the tunnel, until they came to where it had been blocked off, and the space opened up into a small, salt damp-smelling room stacked with emergency supplies.

“So this is a rebel hideout,” Monteo said with interest as Juniper lit the lamps. He leaned his hands on his knees, still working on getting his breath back. “Well. That was bracing. I’m glad you knew where—hey, whoa, what are you doing?”

For Juniper had turned his knife on him once more, pointing it at his throat only an inch or two from the spot of dried blood that marked where he had almost been forced to kill him all of an hour prior. “Give me one good reason not to gut you for a spy,” he said.

“What—but—what’s wrong with you?! He was going to make you kill me! I saved us both!”

“I wouldn’t have _needed_ saving if you hadn’t _stopped me from killing him_,” Juniper said, acid. “So you stop the attempt on his life, get yourself taken hostage, conveniently save us both at the last minute—and now I’m meant to trust you and tell you all about the resistance, right?”

Monteo opened his mouth indignantly, then closed it with a snap. “Oh,” he said. He blew out a breath. “I suppose that is the sort of thing you’d have to think about, isn’t it. Okay. I’ll submit to a truth spell as soon as we get back to your people, I swear it—you must have someone who can do them, right?”

“Maybe,” Juniper said. What they had was Caterucia, who had a contact at the College of Mages—someone, he realized with another tiny burst of hysteria, that Monteo may well have known. “But it doesn’t matter. We’re not going back to them.”

“What?” Monteo said. “You can’t just give up! Okay, it didn’t work, but—”

“We always knew it would probably go wrong,” Juniper interrupted. “Still, it was the best chance we’ve had, so I volunteered. But there was too high a risk that I’d be captured or compromised. Even if I did somehow manage to pull it off, I’m too distinctive.” He gestured expressively with his free hand—his face, his body, his clothes. “His guards would know my face. I was never going back.” He had packed up all his personal effects that afternoon and plotted out escape routes in a fit of optimism he had, against all odds, survived to reap the benefits of. All he had to do was pick up his things and disappear.

“Oh,” Monteo said. He bit his lip, then cleared his throat. “Can I—would you let me take a step back? I can do a truth spell. You wouldn’t be able to guarantee it, but—”

“I know what a truth spell looks like,” Juniper said. He lowered his knife and moved two paces away. He was, quite abruptly, beyond exhausted. He had been avoiding thinking about it all night, but with Monteo here in front of him and no one to back him up, he was suddenly forced to confront the knowledge that he was alone.

Monteo cleared his throat again, then intoned a nearly subsonic hum. He clapped his broad hands together, drawing them slowly apart around a bubble of crackling white light that burst over him with a sizzling pop.

“My name is Baiamonte Mafeo della Scalla,” he said. “I’m an accredited master of the College of Mages at the University of Almèreva. I’m not a spy, I mean no harm to your resistance, and I swear on the holy Name of the Veiled Penitent Himself that the Prince, the Seneschal, and all their people are my enemies.”

No shock of lightning staggered him. It would have to do. Juniper sagged into a seat on the nearest crate.

“Baiamonte Mafeo della Scalla?” he said, finally.

“I know,” Monteo said mournfully. “My name is taller than I am. Seriously, _please_ just call me Monteo.”

Juniper laughed helplessly, dropping his face into his hand. It was all too much—the whole night had been too much—and it was finally catching up with him. His assassination had failed, the Seneschal had it out for him personally, he had voluntarily cut himself off from the revolutionary group that had been his bedrock for ten years, and now his only ally was a wisecracking dwarf who had, to all appearances, never been involved in real resistance work before.

“I can’t believe you turned out to be a mage,” he said.

“Really?” Monteo said. “You figured out I was with the University just by looking at me. Were the lenses not enough of a hint?” He plucked them from his nose and lifted his face to Juniper, and, yes—Juniper caught his breath—his eyes were a brilliant, unreal cerulean, stark against the deep brown of his skin.

“They should have been,” Juniper said. “I won’t make that mistake again. But I see mages so infrequently, it didn’t even occur to me.”

“I suppose my level of exposure might be atypical, yes,” Monteo said, sitting down on the box next to him. “I see more people with bizarre eye colours than not, most days.”

“What colour were yours before?”

“Do you know, I barely remember?” Monteo said musingly. “Something dark, I’m pretty sure. There must have been at least a little blue or green in them, or they wouldn’t have ended up teal, but I don’t actually know.”

Juniper was silent for a moment. He was staring at Monteo’s fingers, still loosely clasped around his lenses. “Thank you,” he said finally, and touched the back of his knuckles. “For getting me out of there.”

“Please, I saved both our skins,” Monteo said, but he curved his hand into Juniper’s touch nonetheless. “It wasn’t exactly a selfless gesture on my part.”

“I know,” Juniper said. “But still. What you saved me from—it would have been—I—” He shook his head. He had known too many people who had been disappeared by Volpe’s men, but none of them had caught the attention of the Seneschal himself. “Thank you. And I’m sorry I took you hostage.”

Monteo grimaced, lifting his free hand to rub at the tacky scab on his neck. “Under the circumstances I can’t exactly blame you,” he said. “Sorry I stopped you from killing the Seneschal.”

“You thought you were doing something good,” Juniper said softly. “You have a kind heart, Monteo. I’m sorry you got mixed up with me.”

Monteo looked down at their hands for a long moment—Juniper’s delicate and tawny brown, dotted with a starfield of freckles; his own square and solid and handsomely dark—and then looked back up to his face. He was smiling. “So the charm wasn’t entirely an act. I had wondered.”

Juniper thought back on the way he had put himself on display for Volpe’s attentions and had to suppress a shudder. “It was… mostly performance. Mostly. But not all of it,” he said quietly. “Not when I was talking to you.”

Monteo was silent for a moment, and then he set the lenses down on the crate and flipped his hand over to thread his fingers with Juniper’s. “Too bad we didn’t meet before tonight.”

“Too bad,” Juniper agreed. “Oh—my name’s not Daniele. It’s Juniper. Juniper Fortuna.” The look he gave Monteo as he said it just dared him to make anything of it: it was a foundling name, a plant sacred to the Lady of the Gardens and the surname all temple-reared children took on. There were hundreds of Fortunas in Almèreva, every one of them poor and unwanted.

But Monteo just grinned at him. “Delighted to make your acquaintance,” he said. “Now, what in the Penitent’s holy Name are we going to do next?”

Juniper hesitated. “We might be able to get you back to the University,” he said. “You’re from the College of Mages, they can probably protect you—”

“After I punched the Seneschal himself with a shockwave? Nice try. You’re not getting rid of me that easily. No,” he said, quite cheerfully, “it seems that I’m a revolutionary now. And since only one of us has any expertise in that particular profession, I defer our choices to you. So, lucky Juniper, what do we do now?”

Despite his better judgement, Juniper found himself biting down a giddy laugh. Everything was still a disaster. The Seneschal was still out to get him, and he was still without the friends he had fought alongside since he left the Garden Temple. Missing them was an ache that had already settled into his lungs, and he was terrified of a future without their support. But Monteo had a way of making things seem brighter somehow. And he was a _mage_. That opened up whole new avenues of possibility for them both.

“It seems that our best chance for revolution in the city has passed,” he said. “I have some contacts on the mainland. I’m sure I can add someone else to my plans.” He turned his smile on Monteo, bright and conspiratorial, and found him looking back in kind. “So, Monteo,” he said, and firmly clasped his hand. “How do you feel about sea travel?”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/october_burns). I have a [blog](https://octoberburns.wordpress.com/). Come chat writing and book recs with me! And if you like my stories, I'd love it if you'd help support my work.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Night Falls on Sovereign Almèreva](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26678866) by [corposant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/corposant/pseuds/corposant)


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